(after Mila Haugová)
No, I have no secrets to pass on.
Cannot explain how self-doubt
picks out a mind to live in.
With patterns of our shared sky
I see your shadow come and go,
but cannot open the heavy door
into brilliant daylight.
People keep pushing through –
all that knocking never for you
or so it seems. For I don’t hear
the language of your longing,
nor question your regrets.
But picture those ghosts
who left you standing: their bare faces,
behind unanswered texts.
In the making of your own bed,
it isn’t good enough for me to claim:
‘All men are not the same’.
ii. 2022
Poetry Is Not Dead - May 2023
